For the June of Doom prompts: 1 "Help me." & "Fetal Position", 5 "Bite" & "Swelling", 7 "What happened?" and the Witcher Monster of the Month June prompt: "Yikes!"
He finds the bard lying on the forest floor in a fetal position, the firewood he had been collecting scattered, his eyes clenched shut, his lips bluish and quivering. Over and over he mutters something no normal person could hear from where Geralt is standing at the edge of the glade. However, he is not a normal person. He is a Witcher, a mutant with highly enhanced sensory perception. So he does understand the words.
"Help me. Help me."
And he would like nothing better than to run into the open space between the trees, swoop his deeply distressed, maybe badly hurt best friend up in his arms and do just that, help him, save him. This very instant. Yet, Geralt is no fool. He controls his strong urge to act on impulse. If Jaskier is in a state like this, there must be a reason, and this reason, whatever it might be, might still be lurking in the nearby underbrush or high up in the tree tops. A monster, most likely, or an evil human. It makes no difference in the end. They will pay, and pay in blood if they have hurt the bard. But if he gets himself killed by throwing caution to the winds, he will not be able to help Jaskier.
For no longer that absolutely necessary, a pair of amber mutant eyes scans the surroundings. At the same time, Geralt, standing as still as a statue, analyses every odour, every sound that could give him a clue to what has transpired. The scent of fear is heavy in the air. He does not smell blood, though. This is good. Then his bard might not be seriously injured. Although, internal bleeding could not possibly be detected by olfaction, so he cannot completely rule it out. And Jaskier's heart beat is far too fast and erratic for his liking. It could just be caused by panic, but what if it is not?
There are no other clues. Whatever has caused this has either fled the scene or is a very secretive, scentless and silent being.
Fuck, he cannot wait any longer. If there is a monster still hiding somewhere, then so be it. It will taste his steel, and it will not like the taste, Geralt will make sure of that. He bursts from between the dark tree trunks, rushes toward his friend, and kneels down next to him in the yellowish grass and fallen leaves, not without repeatedly throwing wary glances at the surroundings, of course. He is a professional, after all, Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf.
"Jask, what's wrong? What happened? Are you hurt?" he asks urgently, laying a callused hand on his friend's shoulder and shaking him gently.
"Help me. Help me," Jaskier whimpers once again, but he does not open his eyes or show any signs of recognition. Damn.
Then, all hell breaks loose.
From the nearby tree tops, more than half a dozen winged creatures come flying at Geralt at incredible speed - creatures he has never seen or heard of before. There is no time to admire their rainbow colours though, or their shimmering, almost translucent, arm-length wings, no. For, despite their obvious beauty, they do not seem to have any friendly inclinations toward the travellers, the contrary. With one fluid movement, the white-haired Witcher draws his sword and springs to his feet. And, with a groan of agony, crumples to the ground as his bad knee, the souvenir from his fight with Vilgefortz on Thanedd, gives way. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Gritting his teeth, Geralt swings his blade above his head like a propellor to keep the attacking insect-creatures from flying into his face while he tries to scramble to his feet again. With little success. He is still down when, suddenly, there is a swish and one of the monsters falls to the ground, a feathered arrow sticking from its colourful body. A fraction of a second later, another one is dead. While Milva keeps firing her lethal projectiles, Cahir darts into the glade, brandishing his sword at the creatures. In a swirl of black smoke, Regis has materialised out of thin air next to Geralt and helps him to his feet.
Between Milva's arrows and Geralt's and Cahir's keen blades, it does not take long for the comrades until the last of the monsters is lying dead on the forest floor. Regis, in the meanwhile, unperturbed by the deadly fighting going on around him, has done a quick preliminary examination of the bard's condition.
"What is it?" Geralt asks, panting heavily after having cut the last of the giant insects in half, his voice laced with worry.
"I'm not quite sure yet," the barber-surgeon answers, furrowing his brow. "I'll have to do a more thorough examination and have a look at those creatures, too, but it appears to me as if one of them has injected our friend with some kind of hallucinogenic venom. See here, Geralt, the large swollen, reddish spot below Jaskier's collar bone?"
"Hmm, you might be right." Geralt grinds his teeth at the ugly sight, then shoots the monsters a death glare. If they had not already been dead, they would probably have dropped dead right now from the burning hatred in the Witcher's mutant eyes. "It's not lethal, right?" he then asks, trying to sound nonchalant, yet with little success.
"Don't you worry, my friend. It takes much more than an insect bite to kill that bard of yours, even if the insects have a wingspan of more than two metres and an ovipositor—"
"A what?" Geralt asks when Regis, very unlike himself, does not continue his sentence but pretends to watch Milva as she retrieves her arrows from the dead bodies.
"I'll explain later. Now we better take him to our camp. I think I have the one or other herb in my saddle bag that will help Jaskier. And," the barber-surgeon gives Geralt's knee a meaningful gaze, "do not attempt to carry your friend on your own. I'm sure Cahir is more than happy to give you a hand."
Although Geralt is still somewhat suspicious of the Nilfgaardian - or possibly non-Nilfgaardian - he nods his acquiescence. His knee hurts even worse than before from the fight, and it would not do for him to gather Jaskier in a bridal carry only to stumble and fall together with his burden because of the bloody joint acting up again. So, as carefully as he can, he turns the whimpering and shaking, mostly unconscious bard onto his back and grabs his friend under the shoulders while Cahir takes him by the legs. Together, and without a word, the two carry the now moaning and groaning bard through the underbrush toward their camp. Luckily, it is not far.
Regis, having mysteriously disappeared from the glade, has already spread out Jaskier's bedroll and is rummaging in his bags when his companions arrive.
"Ah, yes, this will do perfectly, I believe," he says and approaches the bard, who is now lying supine on the sheep skin, trembling and shivering. If from panic or pain or both is hard to say.
"Geralt, will you hold him up a little so I can give him this potion?" the barber-surgeon asks the Witcher, who is kneeling by Jaskier's side once again.
Geralt hmms and does as asked. Cautiously, Regis feeds his sick companion the fluid from the little flask. It smells pleasantly of mint and lemon balm. Jaskier does not open his eyes but he swallows the potion without difficulty or protest. It does not take long and he relaxes visibly. The trembling ceases, gradually his heart rate reverts to normal and some colour returns to his face and lips. Geralt sighs with relief as his bard starts to snore softly, obviously feeling much, much better.
"Thank you, Regis," he says almost solemnly and with a rare smile.
"You're very welcome, my friend." Regis smiles back at the Witcher through pursed lips as is his habit. "But don't forget, Milva and Cahir helped, too," he adds with a good-natured wink. "This was - like our fish soup the other day - a joint effort of a fellowship. And I'm quite sure it would not have had the happy outcome we can now witness if it had not been for our cooperation, our teamwork."
"Right. My sincerest thanks to you, too, dear Milva." Geralt flashes the archer a grateful smile. If not for her well-aimed arrows, things might indeed have gone totally south for him and Jaskier. "And you, Nilf— Cahir." He gives the erstwhile black knight of Nilfgaard a curt nod of acknowledgment, which the young man returns. While Regis and he were busy taking care of Jaskier, the other two have lit a small campfire and started to roast the fat rabbit Milva shot earlier. All of a sudden, Geralt realises that he is hungry, dastardly hungry. Worried sick about his best friend, he did not even notice the persistent rumbling of his stomach, but now he does. And the rabbit smells delicious.
And soon, with the evening sky turning first orange, then purple and finally black above the tree tops and accompanied by Jaskier's snoring, the rest of their strange fellowship is having a tasty and nourishing dinner, the horrors of the giant insect attack mostly forgotten.
Well, Regis, fortunately, has not forgotten. As there is still one issue that has to be taken care of. But not now. Now he lets his human and Witcher comrades eat and sleep and recover. It is not a matter of life and death and can wait until morning.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"How are you feeling, Jask?" Geralt asks when the bard starts to stir. It is already later in the morning than he would have wished for, but after his ordeal of the evening before, the Witcher for once did not wake his friend up at first light but let him sleep in.
"Umm, I had this very strange dream." Jaskier yawns, stretches and sits up, blinking at Geralt from sleepy blue eyes. "Of a beautiful but gigantic rainbow-coloured dragonfly-thingy. It was sitting on a tree stub in the middle of a glade, shimmering golden in the evening sun. When I went closer to say 'hello gorgeous,' the devious beast suddenly attacked me, can you imagine, Geralt? It bit me here right under—" He brings his hand to the spot and touches it with his fingers. Feeling the big lump in exactly the place from his dream, his eyes grow wide. "Fuck, Geralt, what the hell?"
"Sorry, Jask, but this was no dream. Your gorgeous dragonfly-thingy bit and poisoned you. There were more where this one came from, too. But we killed them all and Regis fixed you up, so nothing to worry about."
"Actually, dear bard," the barber-surgeon interjects with an apologetic smile before the flabbergasted Jaskier can say anything, "I'm not altogether done fixing you up yet. One little issue remains. I need to have a closer look at that insect bite. I fear—"
"What do you fear?" Jaskier asks, alarmed at the higher vampire's ominous choice of words. "Will I be disfigured for the rest of my life with a giant red bump on my chest? Or did it infect me with something so I will slowly turn into one of those murderous flying monsters?" He shudders at the thought. Things like these happen, he has not forgotten about poor Eskel and the leshen. But he definitely does not want to end up as a gigantic insect-creature, no matter how beautiful its colours and how delicate its opalescent wings.
"No, my dear bard, it's only—" Regis carefully touches and squeezes the swollen insect bite with the tips of his fingers. "Yes, I fear it is indeed as I thought. I will have to cut it open to extricate the—"
"The what?" Geralt asks when Regis does not finish the sentence but produces a potion, a scalpel and a pair of tweezers from his apron pocket instead.
"You better hold your friend now and I'll explain. This here is a local anaesthetic, so don't worry, Jaskier, it won't hurt much." Regis gives the bard an encouraging smile through pursed lips and pours some of the potion onto the insect bite. Then he raises the scalpel. "Remember the ovipositor, Geralt? Parasitic insects use it to inject eggs into the host organism where, undetected, the larva hatches and, while growing, eats up the host from the inside. Luckily," he makes a quick incision and Jaskier cries out, more in surprise than from pain. "Luckily, this one here," Regis inserts the tweezers into the wound and pulls, "has been detected."
With a genuine smile, the barber-surgeon holds up the tweezers for his companions to see. Between the metal tips, there is a yellowish, gelatinous, round object the size of a blueberry. The parasite insect egg.
"Yikes," Jaskier says, then he faints into Geralt's arms.
Fuck.